He wakes almost unaware that he's been dozing; body aching, emotions exhausted, the weight of depression heavy against his chest.

And then he realises it's not depression. He hasn't dreamt it. It's real. She's here.

He stops himself gasping in a breath of much needed air - if he wakes her, she might wish she wasn't here, might get up and leave, might never come back. He breathes deep (because he must to still the panic), but slowly, watching her head rising with his chest.

She. Kate. Is here.

Here and sprawled along his side, soft and boneless, one knee drawn up over his stomach, so that he can feel the damp heat of her against his thigh. He concentrates on his hand, spread across her back. It wants to move, wants to feel the whole warm length of her, map the curves of hip and waist and breast, stroke the velvet skin beneath her arms, between her thighs. Stroke her until she's clutching him and arching against his fingers, whispering his name on a satisfied sigh.

Instead, he holds himself still, drinking in the smell of her hair, the weight of her arm. Her fingers moving clumsily against his jaw. 'Are you watching me sleep?' she mumbles into his chest.

'Maybe a little?'

'That's creepy,' she answers, but he can feel her smile pushing against him. She tilts her head back, regarding him with tender, sleepy eyes. Loving eyes. He thinks it's love. It has to be, right? Otherwise she wouldn't be here.

They don't say anything for awhile, content to just lie tangled in each other's warmth. His hand, released, stroking up and down her spine, her fingers in his hair, rubbing gently at his scalp. He is still watching when her eyes finally drift closed and her fingers stop and she falls asleep, safely nestled in his arms.

When he wakes again, she's gone, and the disappointment nearly crushes him. And then he realises that he can hear someone moving around the kitchen, and he trips out of bed, almost bashing his face against the nightstand in his rush to get his boxers back on.

But indeed she's there, not a dream, and not his mother or Alexis. There and making breakfast, padding about his kitchen in bare feet, swimming in his maroon shirt and - judging by the glimpse of rounded bottom revealed when she leans over to stir the eggs - not much else.

He's springing to attention fast, faster than he'd have expected considering how well and truly they exhausted that potential last night. Thank god for mouth and hands, which only grow more skilled with age, rather than less energetic. Speaking of hands, his are now sliding under the shirt, finding indeed nothing else, nothing between her and his exploring fingers, coaxing her into arousal. She drops the spatula on the counter as he spreads a hand across her belly, pulling her tight against him so he can nibble her neck.

'Castle,' she sighs, as if it could be anyone else. It had better not be anyone else. 'Burning. Eggs.'

He reaches over and turns the stove off with his belly hand, quickly captures her again. 'I can't help it,' he murmurs to the satin skin behind her ear. 'You are so incredibly hot.'

'Actually, I was a bit cold until just a minute ago,' she tries, but then he slides his middle finger into her and it ends on a strangled whimper.

'Spread your legs,' he growls, thoroughly enjoying her gasp of surprise at being ordered around. Last night it was she who did the ordering, she who made love to him. Twice. Three times if he counts offering herself to his mouth when they both realised a third try without a bit of restorative nap time was pretty much out of the question. He's going to have to work on that stamina thing. Either that or invest in a stock of little blue pills.

Right now though, he's good to go, and by the feel of it, so is she.

'Please tell me your mother's not going to walk in. Or-'

'Not going to walk in. Either of them,' he answers. And then there's nothing more to talk about.

After, he lets her finish the eggs while he sips the coffee she's made in his old-fashioned perculator, the one he keeps as decoration. It's perfectly functional, of course, being one of the few items he owns that requires no power to run. He'll have to remember to pack it when the zombie apocalypse comes.

She's quiet as they eat, barely saying a word, but she looks peaceful enough to still the anxious flutter of doubt, to let him enjoy their meal. She's as in need of sustenance as he is, judging by the amount of food she's made, and how much of it she puts away herself. He remembers another time long ago, Kate in his t-shirt nervously cooking up five different kinds of breakfast and babbling a blue streak to justify it. So different from this Kate sitting across from him, smiling at him as she reaches for another slice of toast, her face washed clean of makeup, her hair haphazardly gathered into a loose bun. She looks ten years younger than she did last night, open and vulnerable. He feels his inner caveman kick into action, the fierce need to protect her from the Dragons and the Smiths and the daily perps who...

He suddenly realises what's been bugging him.

'Kate, it's ten o'clock. Shouldn't you have been at work hours ago?'

She puts the toast down, takes a breath and meets his eyes.

Uh-oh.

'Not today. I quit.'

She's calm about it. Too calm? He searches her face, but he can't tell. She can't want this. He opens his mouth to ask what, when, how, and is stopped by her fingers, soft against his lips.

'I'll tell you,' she says, leaning earnestly towards him. 'I will, I promise. Just not right this minute.' Her fingers slide over the stubble on his cheek, curl around his ear, tugging him gently closer. 'Just let us have this day, Castle. One day where nothing else matters.'

He doesn't resist, helpless against the offer of her lips, already nibbling at his, and then her mouth opening, so tender, so willing...

He forgets. Does it matter? She's happy. She's here. With him. Loving him. Waiting for him as he comes around the counter, their lips still sealed, and crushes her to him, deepening the kiss, feeling her heartbeat growing stronger against his, her breath coming faster, burning against his lips.

'Yes,' she answers, covering his face with tiny kisses. 'Yes, yes, yes.'

He doesn't need to know the question. He just needs this.